Here I am – i finally made it to the long-awaited holiday and to the birth place of my grandmother.
The city I landed in must have very little in common with what she experienced a century ago. First and foremost, I landed there, while she had to remain on a boat for weeks on end.
And then, the scooters and motorbikes – swarming the streets like a horde, without a care for either their surroundings or themselves. I had read about it, I’d been told about it, I’d seen it on a screen – but moving among the horde is not something that may be prepare through theory only.
The language barrier is also stronger than anticipated. I must have expected some French leftovers or a faster adoption of English, but both the Uber driver and the maid evidenced it was far from being the base. Broken English and sign language can only get you so far.
True to form, it started raining. Well, I guess at least that’s what they are calling “rain” here – it’s mostly pouring tropical monsoon. The sudden cooling of the breeze and the deafening sound of the myriads of heavy droplets through the thick surrounding vegetation were tell-tale signs of what was bound to happen.
And just like that, it stopped.
I spent a good chunk of the afternoon in Bến Thành Market, watching tourists wandering from stall to stall, among locals having a late lunch (or an early dinner), crouching on the ground of the smallest stools.
This reminded me of the collision of worlds I had witnessed in Peru – While Westerners may feel some empathy toward some perceived misery, the locals mostly appeared to be enjoying their lives as usual, hell-bent on perusing a way they’ve practiced for ages, without knowing -or wanting to know- an alternative.
Dinner outside at An Café -quite surprised to see a French manager, which no doubt influenced the playlist in the background.
Kicking off the night with a fantastic gin & basil cocktail in a jar, quickly followed by a panel of deliciously performed food.
They say that Vietnamese cuisine is the best in South East Asia – I cannot really compare to any other neighbouring country, but it is really amazing in a of itself (beef wrapped in wild better leaves and chili salt, banana blossom chicken salad, stir-fried tonkenise creeper flowers with beef.
We had a couple of options for our post-dinner plans – a former colleague’s’s farewell party or a gypsy jazz concert at an expat bar. We chose the latter and the discovery of entitled snotty young French expats was appalling. We did not last long there, just enough time for a couple of pictures and a disgusting Tiger beer, some vapid exchange of words with a group of people clearly not interested in mingling with new people or, really, anyone sitting outside their cast. It had a distinctive feeling of updated colonial lifestyle, so far remote from any desire to blend in. Just focused on duplicating their own lifestyle across the globe.
A change of scenery was mandated and we headed to the newly-opened Gin House a.k.a. heaven for me! The bird’s eye view offered by the mezzanine where we were sitting along offered a premium deck on the local scene – the mix of inspirations for the bar design (distinctively British stripes, wire-netted cabinets, tacky copper-tinted paint) mixed with a surreal DJ in her nighties and platform sneakers, blasting technopop was a sight to behold.
I tried to sleep without the constant humming of the A/C and got what i deserved waking up all clammy… Even though the night was somewhat short, it was rejuvenating. It’s 11am and we are supposed to meet up with an expat friend returning home the next day. I was kind of hoping to get treated to my first Vespa ride, but unfortunately, the spare helmet was broken. So we cab it to this delightful place with open garden, rabbits and fountain.
Fortunately, the departing friend was more than eager to bestow her own trusted helmet – we are ready to ride our way to the city!
“You’re not worried, right?” Ama keeps asking me this question on the scooter and it appears to be more for reassurance than actual care, After all, she’s the one doing the driving and there’s nothing worse than a freaked-out passenger in the back.
My answer comes immediately and equally-toned every single time – “If anything happens, I’ll be pissed. But until then, nothing to worry about!“ Here’s for a nice mantra.
But we arrive safe and sound by the Cathedral, the old Eiffel-devised Post Office and the former Paul Blanchy street? This is the very reason I came where she prayed as a little girl, and even maybe baptised, the post office where she might have received some long-awaited parcel from Corsica….
The only remnant of my (locally) famed ancestor is a bar honoring his mustache.
We are wandering along the newly-opened street dedicated to bookselling. It’s a far better sight than the neighbouring newlywed couples spending the first hours of holy matrimony duck facing to a post-fashionista photographer…
We are one leapfrog away from the Jade Emperor Pagoda, so we are seizing the opportunity despite the menacing sky. The mix of praying locals and tourists (while respectful, still noisy) gets blurred among the tack fumes of enchant in the air. It could be nice, but it also makes the papier-mâché statues surrounding up quite scary. Ama does not feel all that good standing near them, so we are stepping out and taking comfort in watching the turtles and koi carps in the adjacent ponds.
The sky gets suddenly dark and the wind begins to howl. It’s going to be a big one – we gear up before trying to find out way in the wet madness.
And it did not disappoint – madness was descending from the sky and spreading among the motorised swarms. With it came the night as well, creating a bizarre ballet of dripping lights in a strangely arranged chaos. I am grateful for the plastic raincoat protecting my photo gear, and followed Ama’s advice to switch my footwear to flip-flops — after all, how much wetter can one get?
The payoff from that ride into hell is however incredibly rewarding – Stepping into Café Tram, crossing the koi pond and walking up the stairs is a walk back through time. The distinctive local feel, with apparent modern luxury – everything is quiet and peaceful. And also dry.
The cafe sua da I get is a more elaborate concoction than my first try the day before – a glass packed with ice on one hand and coffee still dripping from its apparatus onto condensed milk in the other. It adds some ceremonial to the whole scenery.
Once our drinks are gone, we need to hurry back home, change and drop the scooter, cabbing our way to a “…hum” vegetarian restaurant. While the hour remains terribly early by Parisian standards, as well as for a Saturday evening, we are hurried to place our order “before the kitchen closes.” It’s in stark contrast with the zennest atmosphere I witnessed until now in this place – quiet music, healthy food, lengthily detailed on the menu. probably for the best as we are quite late and Ama’s friends are letting us know they waiting for us in a bar even before we get served.
The bar is incredibly loud and reminds me of a trendy Soho concept bar – from the level to the type of music played and the space-invader decoration on the walls. We bounce to a rooftop instead – three floors, each with its ow distinctive feel. The open air is most welcome – the late afternoon rain refreshed the atmosphere.
While the alarm was set quite late, it still hurt my sleepy brain when it came off… It’s going to be a slow day – nothing planned aside from enjoying some rest, sun and peace.
While I’m trying to sort out my plans for the last leg of my trip, Ama scooted to the grocery store and came back with a delightful assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables – she also brought a cafe sua da, which was just as sweet as her attention. Best host ever!
Given the rapidly evolving nature of the weather, we hurried to the rooftop to enjoy our homemade brunch, comprising of the aforementioned fruits and vegetables, in the shade, watching the sun-soaked city defying walls of clouds, much to the delight of the house dog, Charlie.
The day is slow and this is well deserved. Ama’s off to pick up plants to decorate her place, while I’m attempting to finish booking my trip once more. The only imperative of the day is to be on time to get massages. The salon is weird – Thao Dien is a gentrifying expat area still filled with locals, and the place clearly reflect this joyous, yet somewhat self-organizing mess.
And then, a proper full 90mn massage – it feels a bit awkward to be both in the same room, even if I can’t see a thing without my glasses. Unaware of the intensity level, I asked for a “medium” massage — I got a mix of hard and soft, which i guess averages down to medium, but nothing average all over. I’m left in a liquid state, which was exactly the point after the flight.
For dinner, we’re trying a newly opened soba place, advertising itself as a US$3 return trip to Kyoto. It does not disappoint, even if by showing up by 8,30pm, it is (once again) late by the local standards and leaves us without gyozas. The chef is in a transparent cubicle by the street and the whole place can barely fit a dozen patrons. Next to us sat a lonely patron, French as it turned out, who was immediately replaced by… yet another French. They are everywhere.
Finally, Aa suggests wrapping up my last evening in Ho Chi Minh City by trying yet another new place, which I had incidentally spotted on our way to the massages. This open-walled beer place is fantastic and the beers are mindblowingly good. Maybe it’s the heat and dampness that turn the sweet hoppy bubble into heaven. We chat a bit with the 19-year-old US-schooled bartender — he either seems headed for a bright future in the service industry or will die a ranging alcoholic before he reaches 27.
As mentioned, Thao Dien is a chrysalis of a district and the local places are hanging close to new concept catering establishments for the growing expat community. Ama tells me this usually gives new places a two-year life expectancy before either going bust or switching to another concept.
Not sure I’ll ever come back to Saigon, but knowing that if I do, I’m unlikely to drink Bia Craft beers again makes me sad…
Time to pack — while quite tipsy from the beer. The alcohol takes the edge off of packing which is already emotional for family history reasons, but even more so now that i can look back on the fantastic week end we had. Also, I hadn’t seen Ama in so long…
It’s weird, I cannot pinpoint how we got so close — hell, I don’t even know whether she would herself consider us being that close at all… But I still vividly remember that night, six years ago, dining drinking and starting at each other — each of us was a mess. Broken kids transitioning oversensitively into adulthood…
I won’t ever know what having a sister feels like, but I like to think what we have is close enough.
